


Journal of a Griffon Hunter

by Dalish220



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 22:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11633250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalish220/pseuds/Dalish220
Summary: The journal of a passionate Orlesian scholar who leads an expedition into the savage Orthlands in the closing decades of the Exalted Age. They search for griffons, thought extinct for half a century.





	Journal of a Griffon Hunter

5:88 Exalted

7th Day of Drakonis.

I am now passed truly into the wilderness. Orlais, that beacon of holy flame that lights Thedas with joyful hope and longing envy, is behind me. I march into the bleak shadows of the Hunterhorn Mountains and I can admit to myself at least that I am afraid.  
These lands have suffered. They are ravaged and looking now at ashen trees crumbling into parched soil I wonder if the Orthlands will ever recover. I would hope but it seems hope is scarce in these blighted lands.  
I am constantly thirsty. It is the dry wind that whips at my face and stings my eyes. My lips are cracked as the land my weary mount crushes under hoof. And even when my guards find a sluggish stream the water is bracken and almost mud in places. I cannot imagine what desperate people survive here. Even sixty years since Garahel slay the Archdemon, the Orthlands are poisoned by the Blight.  
That fabled mountain range, once homeland of the creatures we seek seems to scrape against the pale blue sky itself. I have never seen such imposing beauty.  
I sit in my tent and scratch at this vellum and the wind shrieks against the camp. The mules are frightened of the blasting air. My guard too shout in hoarse voices to make themselves heard.  
I have never before gazed upon such a vast wasteland.  
I feel as though we are a line of searching ants trekking across a vast plain. Nine figures cloaked against the choking sand.  
We must press on.  
This work is too important to delay.

5:88 Exalted

16th Day of Drakonis.

Orlais’ light is far behind now. And we fumble against the bare roots of the Hunterhorn Mountains.  
There are few on the road. What road it is. No more than the vague outline of a track, sprayed with dirt and sand by the constant screaming wind. The men hate it. My servants even forget their training and mumble curses. My assistant, Pascale has taken to wrapping her head so tightly with her scarf she is blind and deaf and dumb too for she cannot make herself heard.  
I tolerate it as best I can. The Chant helps. A soothing balm for my frayed and wretched nerves but I cannot shelter in my hood for I must be aware. I must be searching.  
I spend my nights huddled in my woolen blankets for the nights are freezing as the days are hot and dusty. My nose almost grazing the yellowed parchment of old works detailing the habits of my elusive quarry. I study the writings of Grey Wardens and thrill to think that these heroes of the Blight once scribbled their musings upon these course pages. Savages and barbarians, many of them, drawn from the wilder lands beyond the civilising light of Orlais but brave beyond all reason.  
Desperate heroes.  
Occasionally Pascale will join me and I find her enthusiasm for these majestic creatures matches by own. We are of the same mind. If any of these animals still fly then they must surely inhabit the highest peaks of the Winterhorn Mountains.  
Those forbidding heights that pierce the windswept sky and loom ever higher over our party.  
Pascale studies the old maps once used by the Wardens in their manoeuvres against the Blight. These are sometimes reasonably accurate and sometimes no more than fanciful artistry.  
Emilien the Chevalier leads our party and I find him a serious man and flawed for he displays the typical arrogance of a chevalier. I know he is frustrated by our enterprise and wonders at the folly of striking deep into the savage Orthlands in search of a vanished animal. I have tried to impress upon him the supreme importance of our endeavour to the Empire itself but he remains unmoved.  
I have even pricked at his pride and conjured visions of armoured chevaliers riding atop huge griffons against Calenhad’s lately cowed Alamarri savages or the smug Nevarrans. There was a glimmer in Emilien’s eye at that but I know he believes the griffons long disappeared.  
I can only hope our expedition proves the man wrong.

5:88 Exalted

27th Day of Drakonis

We pass into the mountains using a narrow track that climbs skyward. It is a lonely path. My servant Simoen was crushed today by a mule that lost her footing on the loose rocks. His leg is shattered and the mule too was rendered lame and dispatched by grim Markel.  
It is fortunate in a way that our supplies already dwindle for we have parceled out the clumsy mule’s load amongst the rest of our animals with ease. Pascale fashioned a splint for Simoen and Emilien ordered his guards Markel and Jean to carry the elf. They are unhappy about this and curse my servant loudly. They believe it demeans them to carry an elf. And they are right in a way but I doubt the Maker would look kindly upon us for leaving Simoen to die in the wilderness.  
There are sparse trees now that hug the steep slopes and I allow myself to hope. Perhaps the Blight was not so brutal here. Perhaps there is life still amongst the higher slopes.

5:88 Exalted

2nd Day of Cloudreach

We stumbled upon a walled settlement today. An Orth town but no more than a dusty encampment to civilised eyes.  
Ringed by a wooden palisade.  
The wooden chantry is the largest building in the village and it is a miserable shack that suffers the winds that squeal through the thin walls. I am thankful once more for Pascale for she has taken the time to learn the Orth language. I find few of these mountain men speak the Trader’s Tongue. They are a hardy lot and I admit I am impressed at their ingenuity to live so high. They hunt mountain goats and scrape stunted crops from the thin soil.  
We have been able to restock at least and I have bought salted meat and bread and cheese with shriveled grapes and peaches. The traders eagerly accept my coins, stamped with the Emperor for I do not believe the Orthland king mints his own coins and these savage folk merely scavenge the currencies of greater peoples.  
Emilien is a marvel here for his plate mail. And the chevalier enjoys the attention. The finest warrior amongst these savage people wears ancient chainmail, no doubt looted from a Warden’s corpse by his father’s father.  
They are firm Andrastians though.  
Too fervent to my eyes for I have seen the remains of pyres in the village square, opposite the leaning chantry. The burnings, recently so popular in fair Val Royeaux appear to have spread into these high passes and the Orth boast to Pascale of the maleficar they have immolated with heretics and heathens too. They are a pious people here. But I remember too the screams of those wretches in Val Royeaux and the rank stench of their pain and I am glad there were no executions planned today.

5:88 Exalted

4th Day of Cloudreach

Pascale and I took young Acadis the soldier with us into the mountain passes surrounding the village today. We hired an Orth man recommended by the elders of the village and he is a sort of ranger, I gather. He does not speak much and carries a curious bow that is carved from bone. Pascale was able to communicate our purpose although the Orth man seemed supremely sceptical as to any of the griffons remaining. He led us along a steep path into the mountains where it was known that the animals once nested. The Orth man claimed his father had seen a griffon in the area a number of years before, as a boy. We duly followed into the wilderness. I conducted a thorough search of the area but I did not really think I would find anything and was not disproven. If there were indeed griffons in these passes, they are vanished now.

 

5:88

8th Day of Cloudreach

We have journeyed deeper into the mountains now.  
Simoen is walking again. Limping anyway. Pascale tends the wound daily and assures me there is no infection. The Orth healer we met in the village knew her craft well. The elf is such a cheerful fellow that the soldiers have quite forgiven him.  
I have hired two Orth guides. I am careful with the Marquis’ money for I fear to spend too much and then return with nothing to show for the expense.  
I conducted a thorough interrogation of these guides, ably assisted by Pascale of course and I am confident in their ability. They were recommended after all by the ranger who first led us through the mountain passes. Sisters, they tell me. Leathered skin and dark smiles but bodies hardened with muscle.  
They lead us further north. We trudge through the slush and mud that means there will soon be snow to follow. I have never coped well with the cold and I am glad to have spent those royals on my fennec fur coat. My gloves though, whilst undeniably stylish offer little resistance to the chill air.  
The wind bites still and now tinged with frost.  
There are ancient stone houses sheltered amongst the trees that cling defiantly to the slopes. They are used still by travellers and merchants and shepherds who herd their flocks into the valleys of a summer.  
We shelter inside as the wind rages against the mountain.  
Our guides speak to Pascale of an old griffon nest where once the hunters would climb the heights to steal eggs for sale to the Grey Wardens.  
Pascale and I have resolved to reach this place, though the Orth sisters have stressed the danger. There is only one path they know of and that is a steep climb upwards, clinging to rock. The sisters told us they had never made the journey themselves but knew where to find the path up. It is a journey of two days from the path itself and none now travel that way.  
What is the point?  
With the griffons extinct?  
We are pressed together now in this small space and the Orth sisters scare us with tales of huge spiders and maleficarum fled into the high passes. They giggle like small children to hear Clara, Pascale’s elven servant squeal when brushing against an old cobweb.  
Pascale is snoring now against my shoulder. I cannot sleep.  
I have studied these animals for years at the University of Orlais. Wrestled with old Grey Warden training manuals and tirelessly translated them into Orlesian. I have held faded griffon feathers in my hand, kept by the Emperor himself. And run my hands over stone sculptures crafted by those who had seen these famed animals. Watched them take flight. Sweep into battle.  
I feel as though I know the griffon. As well as any man might at the end of this Age. Can they be simply gone? Is it possible to destroy every member of a species? Surely only the Maker Himself could accomplish such a task as He did with the dragons, to punish that wicked species for spawning the Blight. There must be griffons still living in these high mountains. Survivors of the Blight. Just as humanity survived.  
Tomorrow, I will make the climb. And maybe thrill at the shriek of a griffon, described to me by long-dead writers in yellowed tomes. If I should see one, I will die a contented man. Even should I hear such a cry, my life’s work will be complete.  
I will not sleep tonight for my obsessions clutches at me. So close to my goal.

5:88

12th Day of Cloudreach

I can barely summon the energy to pick up my quill. I am exhausted. In body and mind too. The climb was indeed almost impossible. I am not yet an old man and I clambered up to the summit only with the considerable help of our Orth sisters.  
I kept my eyes tightly shut against the searing wind as I flattened myself as best I could against the jagged stones of the cliff-face. Poor Pascale sang the Chant throughout the ordeal. Only once did I glance behind and I was almost knocked senseless at the sight. A churning sea of jagged peaks crashing against the pale sky. The Hunterhorn Mountains. Drizzled with snow and thin pockets of twisted trees.  
It was a few moments upon the summit before I was able to stand once more and silently cursing the inevitable return journey I studied my surroundings. I saw then that, according to my extensive research at least the place was a perfect site for a griffon roost. It was an uneven mess of rocks with a cave structure set into the mountain. Lamentably there were no griffons or even chicks there at that time but I was still hopeful we might find feathers or egg pieces. Anything to suggest the animals yet lived.  
I conducted a thorough search of course with Pascale. We were almost crawling across the ground; such was our desire to find any evidence of a griffon still alive. Aside from ancient, whitened bones the Orth sisters reasonably assured me was ram I could find little evidence that any griffons had ever roosted here, let alone within the last 60 years. The terrible weather of the Hunterhorns had raged against this paradise and blown any trace of the griffons away.  
Even leafing through the nests in the caves I was disappointed. I could see where the griffons had made their roosts by cross-referencing the work of Marcus Pavus that I had memorised for just such an opportunity. Pavus, a scholar (and a mage) travelled to Weishaupt Fortress in the Black Age, even as war raged between his homeland and the Chantry. He described the roosts used by the griffons in the Weishaupt stables and I had no doubt these caves too were once roosts.  
But not for some time. There are no griffons in these mountains. I hoped they might have returned to such a promising breeding area but I was wrong to hope.  
The Orth sisters too appeared sullen and disappointed. I myself was lost in melancholy and sat on the edge of the cliff-face, staring into empty skies whilst Pascale scribbled notes.  
I grimaced to return to our camp. Even Emilien had hoped, for his mustached face sank into his chest when he saw we returned with grim faces and empty hands.  
We must press on and I was a fool to think the search for the griffons would proceed so easily.

5:88 Exalted

22nd Day of Cloudreach

Simoen is weaker and appears as though he suffers in a dream. He speaks often of his mother and his brothers and rarely recognizes Pascale, who tends him. Though the air is frigid with cold, he is never without a sheen of sweat across his brow. And his wounded leg weeps pus. We carry him as best we can through the snow. Clara especially will not be parted from the elf. Acadis has ceased his complaints that he is forced to lug an elf. He prays, as do we all that Simoen will recover.  
And Pascale cleans his wound but I believe the infection is now in Simoen’s blood and the wretched elf cannot be long from returning to the Maker’s side.  
It has been slow going through the deep snow. The Orth sisters lead us still though they have demanded more coin. I grudgingly supply it. They are crafty, these Orth, for I can hardly refuse. We would die before a week had passed without their guidance.  
The freezing cold is our constant companion and my hands sting as though pricked with thousands of needles, even wrapped with the strips of cloth I took from spare clothes.  
I am always damp. My boots soggy and my feet squelch against my hose with each step. I thought, whilst planning this expedition in the warm sunshine of the Marquis’ gardens that I would grow used to the cold. I find now that is impossible. I have never felt such shuddering chill before, as though seeping into my very soul. We trudge onwards. A bowed chain, thrown backwards by the wind, snow blinding us.  
Our guards suffer for their chainmail is cold as the snow around and they curse and hiss with every movement. Emilien is far too proud to admit any weakness and yet he struggles more with each step. The chevalier has taken it as his duty to clear our path of snow and it is rare that he can be dragged away by the old veteran Markel to allow a break.  
We have yet to meet another traveller in these soaring heights. And the stone shelters disappeared the higher we ventured. I doubt there are any who have climbed these peaks since the rugged explorers of ancient Tevinter mapped the Hunterhorns. And yet I have not seen any sign of our quarry. I hear instead the distant howls of wolves, surely spread to these parts on the demise of the noble griffon. I find my hope ebbing with every grim step further into these mountains. Pascale and I still study the landscape for any hint of surviving griffons inhabiting these frozen steppes but we find nothing and I am dismayed now. If not here, where humanity does not wander then where?

5:88 Exalted

24th Day of Cloudreach

We broke through a veritable wall of snow today that blocked our path. And we finally begin our trek downward.  
Simoen too is dead. He passed into the Maker’s embrace during the night. Clara is grief-stricken and wails. Pascale too is shocked. I can tell the young woman is not so experienced with death and dying. No doubt a cloistered childhood in her father’s grand halls did nothing to prepare her for the tragedy of life.  
We cremated the elf atop collected sticks and logs, taken from the sparse trees that survive on the slopes. He was a good elf and a fine servant. And I shall miss him.  
We continued on. Silent and weary. As the snow lessened and faded grass began to pierce the white.  
Still no griffons to report. I thought I heard a few times amongst the higher peaks the shrill cry of a griffon, described to me by so many scholars of ages past. But I was alone in hearing such a fancy and I took it as a hallucination, no doubt a waking dream.  
I am exhausted.  
Our provisions have dwindled so that we were forced to slaughter a mule for his meat. Markel and the Orth sisters rationed the animal and we ate well for a time though I discovered I am not fond of horse meat.  
Almost two months in these mountains. Two months. And no griffons.

 

5:88 Exalted

26th Day of Cloudreach

Today we met Grey Wardens. My first time seeing those fabled warriors in the Orthlands and I admit I was disappointed at first.  
The Wardens are occasional sights in Orlais, especially the capital where they are held to be almost sacred and holy for their sacrifices against the Blight. I have considered myself fortunate to meet such a warrior at court whilst attending to my patron and he cut an impressive figure. Tall and undeniably handsome in a rough, uncultured sort of way. The Emperor was certainly most impressed and insisted the Warden regale the assembled nobles with tales of prowess against the hideous darkspawn.  
I cannot say these savage wardens we met on the road today would have been welcomed before the Emperor of Orlais.  
Firstly, they were led by an elf. And a she-elf at that. She sported a shaved head and stinking leather armour and refused to even bow when we approached. Her charges were worse, if it were possible. They appeared nothing more than criminals. I counted six of the wretches. Hobbled together and dragged by a chain linked to their iron collars. The elf introduced herself as Maeve of the Grey Wardens. She was curious to know what business a party of Orlesians had in the Hunterhorn Mountains.  
Pascale and I had decided before we left that we would disguise the true purpose of our expedition to any Grey Wardens we might encounter for I believed then the Order would prove hostile to anyone hoping to sight griffons and impede us. We would travel as ambassadors from the Emperor and aiming to make contact with the king of the Orthlands in his capital.  
I decided then to dispense with the intrigue. There was little point in it. I had spent months in these mountains and found not a trace of any griffons. I am sure now that the animals are indeed extinct. And the shame and sorrow I feel presses against me every moment.  
I told the elf the truth. That I was a scholar at the University and we were in the Orthlands to search for griffons. I told her I had been convinced they still flew these mountains.  
She laughed then. And translated my words for her charges and they guffawed heartily as only ignorant peasants can.  
The griffons are gone, she maintained. For the wardens, her predecessors had travelled every foot of these mountains, desperately hoping to locate any survivors.  
We made camp together and I explained my passion to Maeve the Grey Warden elf. She was sympathetic, I believe if incredulous that I would risk my life in the Hunterhorn Mountains for my task. Maeve told me of an ancient warden she had met in the Free Marches. She was clearly well-travelled. This warden was a survivor of the Fourth Blight and he had seen the griffons fly. Met Isseya herself, so the warden claimed and there was real emotion in her voice then. I understand Isseya must be an elf for elves do not care much for history unless it involves their kin. They are ignorant in that way. Nevertheless, I was intrigued to hear what the old warden had told Maeve. I never tire of hearing of the exploits of the griffons. It is my life’s work.  
The warden claimed that he had only seen griffons once for they were few by then. Decimated by the Blight. He had watched a griffon take flight and could not imagine anything so powerful, so strong and yet also meant, destined to fly. Graceful and muscular at once. Though I spoke to the elf, who had never actually seen a griffon, the unknown warden’s words seemed to reach from the Fade itself and for a moment I swear I spoke to him. Saw the griffons rising inexorably into the air. Feathers flashing in the sun. Curved beaks and deep eyes that every witness described as somehow deeply intelligent. I felt for a moment I was there.  
The warden smiled as I wiped my eyes. And I believe she understood. As much as any elf can understand the more complex emotions of we men.  
She explained to me that her charges were condemned criminals, recruited into the wardens to bolster their diminished ranks. There are few who desire the warden’s life now the threat of the Blight is ended. It is left to the weakest and most wretched of Thedas to fill this important role. Elves, criminals, peasants and fifth-born sons and the like.  
I had suspected, and now it was confirmed that the Order sent only their most impressive wardens out of the Orthlands to recruit. Most of the Order were surely more like Maeve, this uncouth elf.  
She directed our guides to the next settlement before turning in before the fire. Once a Tevinter castle and now claimed as a village. The warden told me the fortress was named Red Keep for the colour of its walls. And it was from there that a path led from the mountains and back into the lifeless plains of the Orthlands.  
Maeve suggested I take the road home.  
“The griffons are dead.” She told me today. “We killed them all. The griffons were our sacrifice for victory.”

5:88

4th Day of Bloomingtide

Emilien sang an old war ballad today, joined enthusiastically by Markel the veteran. They are happy to be heading for Orlais and home. The Hunterhorn Mountains are behind us now. A jagged line of snow-covered heights raising the horizon.  
The expedition was a failure. I admit now that the griffons are indeed extinct. Another victim of the Blight, like the Orthlands themselves.  
I asked Pascale why she continues to scribble her notes when we have failed so absolutely in our task and she answered with her typical optimism. The griffons are indeed vanished, she told me but there is life still in the Hunterhorns. Life that outlasted the Blight and thrives now in the high passes.  
I cannot agree that the Marquis, our patron will thrill to hear that mountain goats still cling to the rocks in the Hunterhorns when he expected news of griffons.  
I wonder now whether my reputation will recover. I cannot foresee many more visits to Court with such disaster as has marred this venture.  
I am alone in my melancholy. Pascale writes her notes and Emilien and his soldiers are just happy to be returning to the golden fields and lush forests of Orlais. The Orth sisters too have left us, weighed down with the Marquis’ coin.  
I sit by the fire here, in the sand of a nameless, swept plain of the Orthlands and I am undone.  
I was so sure.  
Blinded, perhaps by my own love of the animals. Such raw power. Such grace. How could the Maker allow these unique beasts to vanish?  
I was so sure.

5:89

3rd Day of Justinian

I should be readying myself now to join dear Aurelie at the theatre but I thought to finish today’s entry for I do believe I will be too tired to attempt it tonight. These Chantry plays are so exhausting. No doubt I will be forced to suffer through Andraste’s horrific death on stage once more.  
Pascale visited today. I had not seen the woman since last year and the end of our fruitless adventure into the Orthlands.  
I admit it was a pleasant surprise to find her standing by my servant in the hallway. We enjoyed Rivaini tea in the drawing room and reminisced about our time searching for griffons.  
I have never told Pascale how long I resented her for the success she enjoyed upon our return. I was so focused on the griffons that I neglected the fascinating Hunterhorn Mountains themselves. Perhaps because I hated those mountains so. Pascale though enjoyed such widespread acclaim amongst the greats of the University for her insightful observations of the life and climate of those hateful peaks.  
She has done well and far surpassed me now. For she is leading her own expedition into the wilds of Ferelden. Searching for werewolves. We laughed at the Alamarri ignorance and savagery but Pascale argued her case well and it is true the superstitions of that savage people are rife with wolves and magical beasts. Pascale was even able to enlighten me on some Alamarri god called Dane, said to be a werewolf who disguised himself as a man! Fascinating.  
I congratulated Pascale on her commission, graciously I thought and wished her luck. And cautioned her. Though Calenhad’s descendants now sit on Ferelden’s rough-cut wooden throne, it is no true nation and lawless. Pascale assures me her husband, Emilien will ride beside her. I teased my former assistant that it was I who served as their matchmaker and she was genial in her response.  
We spoke of a recent griffon sighting. A peasant family living in the woods near Verchiel. I am sceptical of course and I voiced my own opinion to Pascale that the beast was surely a wyvern, that are known to glide over surprising distances. I was even able to spruik my latest work, a volume on the many beasts of Orlais and Pascale thumbed through my notes with apparent interest.  
We spent a happy hour together and I thanked my once-pupil for taking the time to see me. Pascale is gracious even now. She even offered that I join her in Ferelden! Alas I am not ready to embark upon another adventure but I admit I was tempted.  
Pascale paused beside the door and remarked upon a carving I recently acquired from a dealer in Val Royeaux. Orth-made. A griffon riding the wind currents along a sandy beach that could have been any one of the beautiful coasts of the Free Marches.  
It is a wonderful piece and I am very pleased with it but it is clearly not the work of an artist actually familiar with the griffons. The tail, of course is far too short to offer any assistance in balance whilst flying. And the head is small with more the look of a seabird than a griffon. Still, the griffon’s wings are wonderfully carved to give the appearance of true flight.  
Pascale even offered to buy it from me. I declined of course. My friend teased me that I was still obsessed with the vanished animals and I cannot deny it. It is a sad passion and I wish I were never afflicted with it. To adore an animal one can never see.  
Pascale bid me farewell and I was left to wander the gardens alone whilst editing my final chapter.  
I found instead that my thoughts were drawn to freezing nights in the Hunterhorn Mountains. Sheltered in the opening of a rocky cave whilst the snow pelted the sharp heights of Mount Ambrosia. Wrapped in my fur coat and squeezed beside Pascale and poor Simoen too. And a shrieking cry, so faint to my ears. Carried through the air. A dream. A fevered hope set against the desperate truth. Or a griffon. Perhaps the last. Riding the winds.


End file.
